Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn Page A

snail.
    â€œMore sessions at your hotel, is that what you’re after?… or are you on a culture kick? Isaac, should we take in the Cézanne show at the Modern?… do you want to feel me up inside a movie house? What’s your pleasure today?”
    Couldn’t he borrow Dermott’s magic tongue? The king would have known how to woo Jennifer Pears.
    â€œI’m pregnant.”
    The worm beat against the lining of Isaac’s gut with its many hooks. His face landed in the cappuccino mug. He came up with milk on his nose, a ridiculous man.
    â€œYou’re a godsend, Isaac. We’ve been trying to have another baby for years. A brother or sister for Alex. You know, all that shit about an only child. Nothing happened until you came along … would you like a share of the baby? We could form a limited partnership. Put your request in. Would you prefer a girl or a boy? I’m banking on a girl. Should we allow her to pick her own dad?… Isaac, do me a favor. Don’t visit me at my son’s school. It isn’t nice.”
    And she was gone from the Cafe Borgia before Isaac could wipe his nose with a paper napkin. Funny thing, he didn’t feel like a patriarch. He had an itch in his testicles. His knees were dead. A worm tore his gut like shavings on a pipe. Was he going to be a daddy every twenty-nine years? He had a daughter who was crazy for men. Marilyn the Wild. She could twist Isaac harder than any worm the Guzmanns had stuck him with. What would Marilyn think of a new half-sister or brother?
    Isaac ran out of the cafe. He could have had his men steal Jennifer from the bookstalls of Fourth Avenue, carry her to his hotel, wrapped in a body bag or an old blanket from the horse patrol. He wouldn’t have undressed her, no, no, no. I’ll take that partnership, he’d say. Half your belly is mine. Whatever lunacy he was into, he still had the eyes of a cop. A man was following him from the next corner. A man with scruffy white hair. Isaac had to laugh. It was a retired captain from precincts in the Bronx. Morton Schapiro. Who would put such a joker on the First Deputy’s tail? Isaac led Morton down to Wooster Street and trapped him against the window of a deserted shoe factory. Morton had a Detective Special in his pants. Isaac stole the gun away and tossed it through a crack in the window.
    â€œMorton, who’s been hiring you to play Billy the Kid?”
    â€œNobody.”
    â€œCome on. Did Dermott holler in your ear all the way from Dublin?”
    â€œWho’s Dermott?” Morton said.
    Isaac could have taken him into the factory and pulled on Morton’s skull until the old captain lost his beautiful white hair. He’d scalped people before. But he didn’t want blood on his fingernails. He was going to be a father again. He grabbed Morton by the collar and jerked his neck. The captain swayed like a large rotting pumpkin. It couldn’t have been very serious if Isaac’s enemies were hoping to glue Schapiro to him. The captain was no threat. He couldn’t hold down a precinct while he was on the Force. The Chief Inspector would ship him from house to house. Schapiro was a “flying” captain, who would take over a precinct for a month and then push on. His lieutenants laughed in his face. The homicide squad wouldn’t say hello to him in the hall. There were no parties for Captain Mort when the PC asked him to retire. Whatever job he had now was nothing but charity. Isaac could have choked him to death. But it would have been a bother to round up guests for Morton’s Jewish wake.
    â€œSchapiro, talk to me. What pimp are you working for?”
    â€œArthur Greer.”
    â€œThat’s insane. Why would Arthur send you after me?”
    â€œDunno … he said stick to Isaac. That’s all.”
    â€œDid he give you a message for me?”
    It was a stupid question. Schapiro himself was the message. A fat kite.